THE COLLECTED WORKS OF CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN: Short Stories, Novels, Poems & Essays. Charlotte Perkins Gilman
her thoughts full of pouring moonlight through acacia boughs and Ross's murmured words, it was California—rich, warm, full of sweet bloom and fruit, of boundless vitality, promise, and power—home!
Mrs. Bell drew a long weary sigh, and laid down her work for a moment.
"Why don't you stop it Mother dear? There's surely no hurry about these things."
"No—not particularly," her mother answered, "but there's plenty else to do." And she went on with the long neat hemming. Diantha did the "over and over seam" up the middle.
"What do you do it for anyway, Mother—I always hated this job—and you don't seem to like it."
"They wear almost twice as long, child, you know. The middle gets worn and the edges don't. Now they're reversed. As to liking it—" She gave a little smile, a smile that was too tired to be sarcastic, but which certainly did not indicate pleasure.
"What kind of work do you like best—really?" her daughter inquired suddenly, after a silent moment or two.
"Why—I don't know," said her mother. "I never thought of it. I never tried any but teaching. I didn't like that. Neither did your Aunt Esther, but she's still teaching."
"Didn't you like any of it?" pursued Diantha.
"I liked arithmetic best. I always loved arithmetic, when I went to school—used to stand highest in that."
"And what part of housework do you like best?" the girl persisted.
Mrs. Bell smiled again, wanly. "Seems to me sometimes as if I couldn't tell sometimes what part I like least!" she answered. Then with sudden heat—"O my Child! Don't you marry till Ross can afford at least one girl for you!"
Diantha put her small, strong hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair. "We'll have to wait some time for that I fancy," she said. "But, Mother, there is one part you like—keeping accounts! I never saw anything like the way you manage the money, and I believe you've got every bill since you were married."
"Yes—I do love accounts," Mrs. Bell admitted. "And I can keep run of things. I've often thought your Father'd have done better if he'd let me run that end of his business."
Diantha gave a fierce little laugh. She admired her father in some ways, enjoyed him in some ways, loved him as a child does if not ill-treated; but she loved her mother with a sort of passionate pity mixed with pride; feeling always nobler power in her than had ever had a fair chance to grow. It seemed to her an interminable dull tragedy; this graceful, eager, black-eyed woman, spending what to the girl was literally a lifetime, in the conscientious performance of duties she did not love.
She knew her mother's idea of duty, knew the clear head, the steady will, the active intelligence holding her relentlessly to the task; the chafe and fret of seeing her husband constantly attempting against her judgment, and failing for lack of the help he scorned. Young as she was, she realized that the nervous breakdown of these later years was wholly due to that common misery of "the square man in the round hole."
She folded her finished sheet in accurate lines and laid it away—taking her mother's also. "Now you sit still for once, Mother dear, read or lie down. Don't you stir till supper's ready."
And from pantry to table she stepped, swiftly and lightly, setting out what was needed, greased her pans and set them before her, and proceeded to make biscuit.
Her mother watched her admiringly. "How easy you do it!" she said. "I never could make bread without getting flour all over me. You don't spill a speck!"
Diantha smiled. "I ought to do it easily by this time. Father's got to have hot bread for supper—or thinks he has!—and I've made 'em—every night when I was at home for this ten years back!"
"I guess you have," said Mrs. Bell proudly. "You were only eleven when you made your first batch. I can remember just as well! I had one of my bad headaches that night—and it did seem as if I couldn't sit up! But your Father's got to have his biscuit whether or no. And you said, 'Now Mother you lie right still on that sofa and let me do it! I can!' And you could!—you did! They were bettern' mine that first time—and your Father praised 'em—and you've been at it ever since."
"Yes," said Diantha, with a deeper note of feeling than her mother caught, "I've been at it ever since!"
"Except when you were teaching school," pursued her mother.
"Except when I taught school at Medville," Diantha corrected. "When I taught here I made 'em just the same."
"So you did," agreed her mother. "So you did! No matter how tired you were—you wouldn't admit it. You always were the best child!"
"If I was tired it was not of making biscuits anyhow. I was tired enough of teaching school though. I've got something to tell you, presently, Mother."
She covered the biscuits with a light cloth and set them on the shelf over the stove; then poked among the greasewood roots to find what she wanted and started a fire. "Why don't you get an oil stove? Or a gasoline? It would be a lot easier."
"Yes," her mother agreed. "I've wanted one for twenty years; but you know your Father won't have one in the house. He says they're dangerous. What are you going to tell me, dear? I do hope you and Ross haven't quarrelled."
"No indeed we haven't, Mother. Ross is splendid. Only—"
"Only what, Dinah?"
"Only he's so tied up!" said the girl, brushing every chip from the hearth. "He's perfectly helpless there, with that mother of his—and those four sisters."
"Ross is a good son," said Mrs. Bell, "and a good brother. I never saw a better. He's certainly doing his duty. Now if his father'd lived you two could have got married by this time maybe, though you're too young yet."
Diantha washed and put away the dishes she had used, saw that the pantry was in its usual delicate order, and proceeded to set the table, with light steps and no clatter of dishes.
"I'm twenty-one," she said.
"Yes, you're twenty-one," her mother allowed. "It don't seem possible, but you are. My first baby!" she looked at her proudly.
"If Ross has to wait for all those girls to marry—and to pay his father's debts—I'll be old enough," said Diantha grimly.
Her mother watched her quick assured movements with admiration, and listened with keen sympathy. "I know it's hard, dear child. You've only been engaged six months—and it looks as if it might be some years before Ross'll be able to marry. He's got an awful load for a boy to carry alone."
"I should say he had!" Diantha burst forth. "Five helpless women!—or three women, and two girls. Though Cora's as old as I was when I began to teach. And not one of 'em will lift a finger to earn her own living."
"They weren't brought up that way," said Mrs. Bell. "Their mother don't approve of it. She thinks the home is the place for a woman—and so does Ross—and so do I," she added rather faintly.
Diantha put her pan of white puff-balls into the oven, sliced a quantity of smoked beef in thin shavings, and made white sauce for it, talking the while as if these acts were automatic. "I don't agree with Mrs. Warden on that point, nor with Ross, nor with you, Mother," she said, "What I've got to tell you is this—I'm going away from home. To work."
Mrs. Bell stopped rocking, stopped fanning, and regarded her daughter with wide frightened eyes.
"Why Diantha!" she said. "Why Diantha! You wouldn't go and leave your Mother!"
Diantha drew a deep breath and stood for a moment looking at the feeble little woman in the chair. Then she went to her, knelt down and hugged her close—close.
"It's not because I don't love you, Mother. It's because I do. And it's not because I don't love Ross either:—it's because I do. I want to take care of you, Mother, and make life easier for you as long as you live. I want to help him—to help carry that awful load—and